Date Long Passed
by lacedupfrilla
Summary: The war has come to an end, but a most peculiar phenomenon has taken its attention to Germany. Death has ceased its operations, and what could be a better pardon for the man on the cusp of losing everything.


_Okay. To put it politely, I took historical liberties with this business. A lot. You could call it alternate history, you could call it total bullshit. It's both. It's also based on a book called "Death With Interruptions" by the late Jose Saramago. I an only ask for feedback and for you to enjoy my inaugural attempt at fanfic. First time clunkiness, amirite, guys? Hokay. Firstly, there is character death in this. Secondly, it gets weird. Here goes. _

In the wake of smoking barrels and rumbling tanks, sheathed in lingering swirls of smoke and the crackle of diminishing hopes, Germany failed to notice the first day that nobody died. He failed to notice it for days thereafter until a man in fingerprint-smeared glasses and rumpled garb burst into his quarters without remote concern for plain respect. It was fortunate for him that Germany was nursing a particularly thunderous migraine and couldn't bring himself to scold the intruder. He just mentally docked his security's pay before settling in for what was sure to be more tiresome spiel. Another brat frightened by the late night gunfire. Another banker reeling from the dwindling numbers before him. Another pen- _personalized, don't you understand-_ out of ink.

Tonight's performance was instead entitled "My elderly mother-in-law, as useless as she is haggard, hasn't been poured six feet under my righteous little feet yet and I blame your government".

Germany pressed his fingers- index and middle, instructive and obscene, speaking for himself and his brother- against his temple. "I realize that blaming the government- and, reason standing, myself- on domestic problems as become a fair coping mechanism. We haven't done you great favours as of late. But to think that your grandmother-"

"_Mother in law,_ to think I share blood with that ancient rat- "

"My mistake, mother-in-law, warrants our hospital staff to purposefully kill her is completely out of question. I've had people hanged for less."

"But-"

"Less such as purposefully intruding on my property."

The man gave a withering gulp before managing a dry "She was expected to die, sir. Weeks ago. She can barely breathe, and her heart beat is a whisper, but she's still alive. My friend from the office speaks of a very similar phenomenon- his daughter has polio, really bad polio, and left and right children around her ward are usually dropping. But nothing- their condition stays the same, but it's just…endless." He peered over his lenses at Germany. "Isn't that curious?"

"Perhaps, but normally when such problems arise, it is the responsibility of my health officials to inform me when something seems amiss."

"And-"

"I haven't been informed of any such thing. You know what that means?"

"…you need better representatives?"

"I need better citizens. Ones who allow those much bigger than themselves to arrange everything. I occupy a fair shape of the continent, more than just your little desk space and death wards of arguable sanitation, and between your headaches and my own, I believe it's best for me to rely on the professionalism of my compatriots." Germany fixed the man with the most foreboding stare he could muster. "A curious opinion, do you think?"

"N-no, sir."

The first signs of something gone amiss had gone purposefully ignored.

Fortunately for Germany, for his intuition in the wake of the realization that soon, very soon, _Königreich Preußen and all its gold, glory, and gloating would be left to wither in a mausoleum for the rest of forever, the second sign carried with it a little more notice. _

_Germany had been within the general vicinity of the explosion, not so close as to feel the shards of glass raining upon his skin but close enough to feel the Earth recoiling in its wake. His feet felt disconnected from his body as he hurried towards the scene, screaming crowds simultaneously fleeing and encroaching in the harshest tide he'd ever experienced. _

_The building, he remembered, was photography place, a quaint little one with a tricolored awning and big red letters boasting the name "Hoffmann Fotografie" to passersby. He had gone only once, with Veneziano (Italy, right, Italy now)- Italy momentarily forgoing their patrol in favour of getting some grainy posterity. Dressed in uniform and with hair perfectly arranged, Herr Hoffmann had kindly declined their Rentenmarks, saying that their mere presence would bring in more than enough. He had a wife and two children- boys, he remembered vaguely. Knob kneed and bow-tied, little legs swinging impatiently as their father trilled about making memories. _

_"Somebody help!" _

_Germany turned to see Frau Hoffmann scampering throughout the crowd, eyes wide with fright. "Somebody!" she implored. "My husband's inside, call the department, I can't…somebody!" _

_One man in a blue coat was brave (or cruel) enough to say "I'm sorry; ma'am, but he couldn't have survived that. My condolences."_

_But when the department roared in and the fire was reduced to embers snickering at their mischief, a crumpled body remained. Scorched beyond all recognition, black as charcoal and crumbling all the same, pieces of mottled skin collapsing to the ground, and a set of gnashed white teeth, hoarsely begging for salvation. _

_And that's when Germany realized that, much like God, death had forgotten his fair shape of the continent._

_Prussia could take consolation in that he wouldn't be the first to go. After all, that meant he had seen a preview of what was to come. Fragrant flower wreaths and complimentary dishes cluttering his brother's counters, tears wiped by others and hands affixed to curved backs like warts to toads._

And he remembered all too well the days after, the way Italy had kept to himself with uncharacteristic sombreness and the way Spain had moved like weights had been fixed to his feet and just breathing was a daunting task. General mourning had only been accompanied by disbelief, that one of their kind, one who had followed along behind generations of the great and the glorified, one who had held first chair in orchestrated war and had an embarrassment of museum articles in his attic, was now on the mortal level. A level they doubted they'd visit but perhaps, with the wiles of time and the whims of future dictation, one day would.

Contrary to appearance, Romano's death was more than just a black-veiled occasion. It was a stone-cold, polished-gold, flickering-flame and engraved name forever.

And now Prussia was up next to cut. He could almost hear the snips and feel their cold blades against the fine hair spackling the back of his neck. It was that fucking snip that kept him from performing his mortal duties- like fucking shitting, when did he last do that?- because it could snap shut at any time and that was no way for him to go. Germany coming home to discover his dear big brother, Trailblazer For Virtue and Value, the man who had taught him the very importance of a sharp heel click and wizened obedience. Slumped doornail-dead over the shitter.

Paranoid, perhaps, but Prussia was a warrior before a wasting little scrap, and he'd be damned if his death didn't carry with it the dignity and grace worthy of his name. If he knew anything from his (long, long, but back page in sight, glory be) life, it was that death came uninvited and always with a grip and a smash.

Hell no, he was going out like an immortal. Maybe draped across a sundial- ancient art quality. Or, if he could corral some fine Arabian into it, on poetic horseback. There was the problem of his corpse being bucked off, though, and then trampled beyond human recognition (because he's no better than _human_ now) and that would mean closed casket funeral and that would mean no scattered rose-petals across his angel-like visage and no Hungary touching his cold (flawless) face and whispering "Why did I ever shirk you for that human doily?" and no Austria grasping his paled hand and choking "Why didn't I recognise your genius, your brilliance, when even your derriere is no less than Raphaelite?".

It was during these contemplations when Germany threw the door open in his face.

"Fuck, you stupid clod!"

"What were you doing by the door?"

"I was pondering!"

"Ponder elsewhere, then. You deserved that."

"I deserve no less than brass coins in my image. Who set your ass on fire?"

Germany ignored the question and set his briefcase on the floor. "You seem better."

"I get better every day."

"Not in that respect, you're less…"

"…mopey? Ah, well, you know me. Only thing I ever resign to is fate, yeah?"

Germany tangled his fingers in his hair and opted for silence. It usually told more, for how could he put into words the overwhelming amount of pain he felt every time he looked at his brother and known, just known, that his funeral could be less than a month away.

Prussia noticed the tension in his brother's voice and cleared his throat. "What's wrong?"

Evenings spent eating cold vegetables and stale bread alone in his office before creeping into his brother's room, burying his face in the soft hair and breathing in gasps and shudders, knowing that he had been the one to draw the line.

Germany ran his fingers along the spines of some dusty books (bought solely for decoration, Prussia knew, because like hell would Germany ever even give a shit about the wig styles of French coxcombs) and conjured up what remained of his voice. "People haven't been dying."

Prussia arched an eyebrow. "And that's bad?"

"I don't know, ask the thirty-seven doctors who can't for the life of them understand what's happening." Germany pinched the bridge of his nose. "All over the country, I'm getting these. I've got a funeral parlour in Bonn worrying about their business; I've got an aging caretaker with claiming that she can't stop the influx of needy in Stuttgart; and I've got starving, desolate families all along the Rhine unsure if this is a pardon from God or a punishment, but nobody's heard the knell ring for weeks now. Nobody."

Silence was the only proper tune for this. After yet another moment, Prussia hazarded a comment.

"Is this- um, a world thing or…"

"I checked. Death rates are normal across the rest of continental Europe- according to those who will speak to me, England spat when I called and Denmark spent twenty minutes trying to confirm if I was serious." Germany fixed Prussia with a look that could double as rat poison. "Why wouldn't I be serious?"

Prussia laughed to himself, ripping open his packet of toothpicks and pressing one between his lips.

"What a question, you're very serious. Impertinence abound, I say, I'll be sure to have a word with his parents."

"That's not funny."

"I'm very funny."

"Prussia, please, this is serious. I think-"he took a nervous breath. "I think that death as we know it has become obsolete."

Nights without the obnoxious visage of the moon were the hardest to find sleep in. Germany hadn't been sleeping properly at any rate. His witching hour routine had been too precise for flaw- he'd remain in his office until two chokes of his damaged cuckoo clock, and would then go silently into his brother's room. Finding Prussia, fitfully turning and cursing in his rest, he'd gently lower himself onto the side of the little cot. He'd (carefully) place a hand on the back of his neck. Prussia would eventually find calm in that cool hand (subconsciously, of course, for his brother had always slept like, hilariously, the dead) and still his manic movements.

In that tranquility, Germany whispered. Whispered his apologies, his regrets, his wishes. Chuckled at anecdotes, kissed his cheek, wiped his own tears away with a shudder. He had an hour each night.

Tonight, the moon had forgotten to attend the event. Normally, Germany could see the outlines of his brother draped in moonlight; darkness huddling in the little clefts where bone structure had won out over muscle, light streaking across his tangled hair and in the various nicks he had attained from battle. It helped to see, to know he was still there, to see the rise and fall of his chest.

Germany turned back to the papers, words blurring into one gnarled branch before his tired eyes, and prayed, as he always did, that his brother would stay to see another moonlit night.

The letter had come from a very displeased, and very well salivated, priest.

"With all due respect, Pastor Hertz, nobody is in clear understanding of what is happening." Germany said. "We don't even know if it's permanent."

"Some claim they do, and then pronounce themselves as the cause. Death fled because they scared them off, they said. You've heard of this happening, I presume?"

"Yes, I get a new messiah every day."

Pastor Hertz groaned, placing a tired hand atop his forehead. "People need the church more than ever right now."

The time rounded to sixteen, and Germany downed the remains of his water glass.

"We hinge our existence on the promise of an afterlife, Germany. Without that, without a reward in sight- a carrot on the stick, I believe is the proper analogy- then who's to say that the country won't dissolve into pure anarchy." He sighed.

"I'm sure that won't happen, Pastor Hertz." Germany lied.

"And the sudden storm of rampant nationalism?" Pastor Hertz countered. With a sweep of his arm, he gestured towards the window. Below, a man not invigorated enough to be twenty but not wise enough to be thirty, was painting a series of disjointed letters across a store window.

JEWS BRING DEATH. NO JEWS. NO DEATH.

"We should do something."

"We can do nothing."

The cork made the most satisfying pop as it rocketed across the counter. Fine red wine, perfectly aged and a bouquet rich enough to inspire thievery, was delivered as a pre-departure gift by good friend France. In exchange, Alsace-Lorraine and a good quarter of West's poor ass.

"Best thing you could have gotten me, Monsieur Fromage." Prussia mumbled to himself before a sharp knock at the door. Tossing the breadknife back onto the counter, he stumbled over the gathering wasteland of half-read books and crumpled notes. The door gave a loud scream as it was wrenched open (the tricky knob need a bit of abuse to get into action, it seemed) and in turn, Prussia gave a strangled choke.

"You."

"Me."

Russia's smile was present and guileless as always, his frame filling the starved doorframe and his large hands clasped before his stomach pleasantly. Prussia gripped the shitty little knob even tighter, eyes narrowing at the grotesque before him.

"The hell do you want."

The man gave a little nod towards the cluttered apartment. "Mind if I come in?"

"Very much." Prussia hissed, but he stepped back and gestured for Russia to follow him. "Leave the door open."

The wine bottle sat expectantly before the single thumbprint stained glass, and just because he was in the presence of beasts didn't mean that Prussia had to exercise hospitality. He sloshed a fair portion in, little garnet beads dotting the insides of the glass and flourishing across the counter in wayward streams. Russia remained in the threshold, thumbing his stupid little hat between his fingers. Prussia glanced over at him.

"Need something else, Chekhov, or you good living all your life on the shore of a lake."

"Like a seagull, happy and free." Russia laughed.

"Shut up. C'mon, let's go to the balcony, I prefer getting drunk with a view."

"Alright…oh, should I take my shoes off?"

Prussia rolled his eyes. "Oh, wouldn't want to inconvenience us, would you? Leave 'em on, let's go."

The view from their little balcony, comprised of two dining room chairs and whatever makeshift table they would snatch before venturing out, overlooked a little street where children would hobble and women would toss up their laundries. Right across the way was the rotund Frau D- anointed so for Prussia couldn't for his own prolonged life recall her full name- who would occasionally grace his eyes by leaning out her window in only her slip, milky breasts mooning over the dusty sill. She didn't appear to be in this afternoon, Prussia thought with a bitter sip. Probably off exploring gargoyles. He knew that Frau D had quite the admiration for gargoyles.

"This is nice." Russia commented, settling into the second chair. "Very domestic."

"What the fuck did you come here for." Prussia grumbled over the rim.

"You recall the previous arrangements regarding your annexation into the Soviet Union."

"Ah yes, how I could I forget. It was such a glorious spring day when your red bastards swayed through my land, raping the women and …"

"And we pardoned you because of your impending death." Prussia had to appreciate him for not fluttering his hands uselessly in the air and letting the wretched death-word sit like a swinging noose, as though not everybody else had latched onto its burning form and waited for it to come down.

"Pardoning?" Prussia snorted. "Slicing my brother in half and painting your part red ain't pardoning shit. So basically, now that I'm probably not dying, you want me over."

"I didn't say that."

"God, Romano didn't get this stupid shit."

"I never had use for South Italy."

"It's the standard I'm measured against, now." Prussia grumbled. "Everybody, all the fucking time. Romano died too, until Romano we didn't think it'd happen, and that wasn't long ago- no, not long at all. And now you, Prussia, now you and Romano will be the two nations in our time who got to go die." He laughed. "I don't even get the distinction of being the first of our time."

Russia nodded gravely. "That must be hard."

"No, it isn't. Dying is hardly difficult. It's not knowing when that makes it impossible to bear." Prussia went to drink from his glass before noticing it was empty. Next time, he'd just take the bottle.

A silence lingered between the two for a moment, and the youngest girl down the way ran out onto the street with her little red hoop.

"I've decided to give you time to die." Russia said. "Three years would be fair, I think. That's what the estimates are."

"Where the hell are they getting those numbers from?"

Russia half-shrugged. "I don't know, somebody predicted, I think. Same person who predicted the exact day the war would end, so everybody trusts him. He said in three years, people in Germany would start dying again. So in three years, if you still have not died, I will be taking you in as East Germany."

"1950." Prussia appraised. "A final number, that's good."

"Yes, very good." Russia tapped a finger on the chair's arm. "I do want to give you a chance. I like you, I like you very much."

Prussia remained silent. Russia turned towards him, and with a tap of his foot and a voice in no uncertain terms, added "Do we have a deal?"

The clink of an empty glass on wooden armchair. Prussia nodded. Russia smiled.

"Wonderful." His eyes drifted down to Prussia's arm, his skin pink and raised in jagged lines at the detriment of his sharpened nails. "You should cut your nails."

"I don't need to hear about what I should do." Prussia countered, before his eyes suddenly widened. "Hey, wait, Russia."

"Yes."

Prussia swallowed, and in a voice like cracked stone and sifts of hot sand, stated "I want to see Hungary."

Germany had to hand it to Italy- he was very, very adept at visiting at the worst possible time. Bringing with him a six rose sheath and guileless smile, Italy entered his office without precedence and in turn Germany's heart near failed.

Of course, circumstances standing, that wouldn't do much.

"Germany! It's been so long, I'm sorry, I keep saying to myself 'Italy, go visit Germany, he needs lots of hugs' but stuff is really, really bad at home, everybody keeps yelling and nobody does any work all they do is yell and yell and give me a headache, so I decided to come see you!" Italy's face fell as quickly as a cut, just as painfully. "Is everything okay?"

"No." Germany mumbled. "I'm sure you've heard."

"About the death thing? Yeah, you called but I was taking a bath and I was so relaxed I forgot to call back. But everything's normal in Italy- well, death-wise, not other things-wise, things are really messy right now and not very good. But you know, things are like that here too, I think. There was a man by your building and he looked really sad. You'd think with nobody dying everybody would be happier."

"Nobody is happy when theory put into practice."

"I know! When you made me practice, remember, I'd get really bored and hungry and sad because practicing is boring and hard but it makes you better, right? People don't like not dying but I don't think people like dying either." Italy's shoulders slumped, almost imperceptibly, and if Germany weren't staring there to avoid looking at Italy's face, he wouldn't have noticed it.

"Do you want to-"Germany scratched at his hand, trying to prolong his inevitable question, an axe-to-neck if there ever were for Italy's flimsy self-control. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Italy's lower lip trembled and his gaze dropped to the rug, nodding slightly. Germany sighed and set down his pen, knowing it would be quite some time before any work was completed.

"I miss him."

"I know."

"I wish he was here- he would sometimes pass me little notes in meetings so I wouldn't fall asleep or start drooling, like he'd start drawing a picture and I'd finish it or he'd make jokes about the person's haircut or wig or something and I'd try really hard not to laugh but I usually did and then my boss would yell at us. He even did it during…during Risorgimento, at the Congress of Vienna, and Austria got so mad at him- he got all purple and puffy and kind of looked like a big angry fruit. And…" Italy choked back a sob and smiled a bit at Germany. "I'm so happy for you."

"What?"

"Yes, you're very lucky."

Prussia was trimming his nails. In the furor of funeral planning and death expecting, he had let his basic grooming go a bit neglected. Picking out plots (something where there's sun would be nice, his skin condition didn't let him enjoy the sun quite so much in life. Now that his heart was to at long last be silenced, it was quick to make its desires known.) Until news of some bastard expiring atop a poor whore took wind and sent the million proud ensigns (Germany! Land of Eternal Life!) aflame, he had all the time a blank slate would allow.

So, he decided to trim his nails. Fritz had emphasised priority above all.

Ah, Fritz. Discovered dead in his armchair, flanked by his beloved Italian greyhounds. Though his face was pale and his eyes were milked, even in death he had remained a paragon of brilliance, an admiration to all, proud in his great char with graceful fingers (though wrinkled and veined) resting upon the meticulously carved arms.

No greater death in history, Prussia mused as he slid tightened his grip in the knife's hilt. There was death below horse's hooves and off jutting cliffs, in heads bursting like pumpkins over sharpened stone and in something so deceptively simple as a knotted rope. Fritz had discovered it in opulence, in gold plated mirrors and portraits of the previous rulers.

A bit of red caught Prussia's attention, and he noticed that in his thoughts, he had sliced the nub of his right index finger clean off.

Germany's mind gasped, his throat recoiled, and every last bit of sheer will he had built up came crashing down within him, breaking every bone, every muscle, every blue vein and pulsing artery, all trapped in that iron vise. Because nothing-_nothing _- could pull that trigger like that one dreadful word.

"Lucky."

Italy, all bright eyes and beatific smiles, nodded.

"My brother is dying. Could be dead any day, neither of us know, because the hammer could come down at any second whether we're ready or not. Sleeping or awake. And you of all people know that because where was Romano when it happened to him, when it happened to _you_. And you should know, you should very well know, that it happens to you as much as it happens to him.

"And I try- every day, Italy, every day I'm stuck in this stupid hell, I try to stay focused. Because Prussia isn't like your brother. He doesn't constantly need people to rub his back and kiss his forehead and remind him that he's liked. He's got plenty of self-respect- a bit too much, I'll admit- but enough self-respect that he doesn't need to feed off the little bits of it others throw out to feel better. What Prussia needs is something, somebody, _me_, to remind him that it's not his fault- it's not _my_ fault, I know it's not, I would never consciously let this happen or let some stupid slip of my judgment and blurred foresight bring the death sentence to my brother. And it's not _his _fault, so why do we need to turn something so plain as day and so inevitable into a maudlin scene is what I fail to grasp.

"But despite that, despite what I do to keep some normalcy about us, even with this complete hysteria seizing my nation- _my _nation, which does not, need I remind you, need any more pain raining down on it after everything that has happened- it breaks me inside day after day, night after night, to see him. He's getting thinner, haven't you noticed. Not that you visit him, but if you did consider breaching our doorstep like you did ever so frequently in the midst of war- clearly, of course, the rational thing to do in wartime is to invite yourself over for some rigatoni- you'd see it. Even you would.

"And somehow, the fact that I'm able to find my work, that I'm able to keep myself together and drag myself out of bed in the mornings and act like somebody with a purpose, means we're fine. That we're _lucky_. Because to you, Italy, misery only comes with a flood of broken tears and what remains of your heart sewn to your sleeve."

Germany's breathing was only escaping in laboured bursts that broke his lungs and scraped the inside of his mouth- a mouth dry to accommodate the sudden moisture pressing at his eyes, he figured. Italy, a counterbalance, remained stock still and silent. In a voice like the bat of an eyelash, Italy whispered.

"That wasn't what I meant, Germany. I meant…" he swallowed. "I meant, that with there being no death in Germany, I think that means that Prussia isn't going to die."

The clock was singing its usual tune with ignorant gusto, and Germany had never heard anything quite so mocking or wretched. Italy placed the sheath atop the desk.

"I was saving it for the funeral, but I guess you don't need it now. It's pretty, though. I think Prussia would laugh, too, because he thinks it's funny that people are planning his funeral while he's still around. He told me that on the phone, on Saturday, when I called." Italy gave a little tip of his hat and was off without another word.

"And so now nobody's dying. Wacky, isn't it?"

"Very. It makes me wonder just what makes you so special."

Prussia gave a little laugh and kicked his feet onto the table. "Everything, my dear. And you know what, I think this could be the fish that swipes me off the hook."

"That's the worst analogy possible, you brainless clam, because that would make you dead."

"Noooo. Hungary, seriously, consider it. If you leave a worm down there long enough in…let's say Donau, you leave a worm in the Donau, you think he's gonna have a nice little swim and maybe enjoy some reading in a miniature sunhat and see how the weather does down here, then you are sorely mistaken. I mean, ass after a raw fuck sorely. Nuh uh, I'd rather get my wormy ass nipped before panic sets in because drowning- fucking drowning- is the worst way to go. Too long, too cold, too wet, and you'll be prunier than a pickled spinster by the time you're fished out. Don't prolong it is what I'm saying. Getting nipped is an at best, Hungary, and I do _the _best, not at best. But!" He tipped his wine glass in her direction. "But that's not a problem anymore."

Hungary narrowed her eyes. "I think you missed the part when I said I'd like to discuss the silenced death rattle with your brother-"

"Discuss it with me!"

"Yeah, when bees tap-dance. I'd like to figure out if it's in any way an ethnically German issue or it it's just in your borders."

"And the difference that makes is…"

"Prussia, I've got Hungarians stationed here with their families, friends, and assorted pets. I'd like to know if this 'no-death' gamble accounts for them or if they're coming up snake-eyes. Understand?"

"Completely."

Her eyes suddenly widened. "What happened to your hand?"

"Hand? Oh. Incident. More wine?"

"God, no." Hungary smoothed out her skirt and leaned back as far as the chair would allow. It was raining, and the drum-drum-drumming of raindrops on the window was a bit distracting, if not borderline maddening. "Somebody up there likes you."

Prussia snorted. "Everybody likes me."

"This isn't the time for jokes. I think that somebody decided that you deserve to live enough to sacrifice everybody else. Death found a loophole and just ripped every last seam out of it. But there's always a chance-"

"That it'll wear off and I'm back to picking out a plot? Yeah. I know."

Hungary bit her lip and nodded.

"Well, then there's just nothing we can do. We'll go back to the way it was before, when we were all 'sniff-sniff, bye Prussia, we loved you and we should have acknowledged your perfection when it was, indeed, immortal' because you know how it is, the best never lasts. But until then, we'll drink. We'll drink until that cloth rips because it, frankly, can't take any more fucking with, when this nice little safety net falls through because I- yes, even I- am not immune to death. And neither is Death herself. So stop crying and drink."

Between bargaining with funeral parlours, fielding the protests of the other nations, monitoring a furious wave of burning nationalism (the worst possible thing, now, but Germany had been anointed the land of eternal life and that inspired the ensigns to fly like no other), and installing as many state plans as his ink would allow to deal with the old, with the injured, with the mad, Germany was about ready to die himself.

But that, of course, was impossible. He wondered briefly if his nation had fulfilled the death quota for the century, and thus, no more souls were permitted to flee their fleshy traps. Instead, they'd fester in their cages and not make so much as a peep until the next round of plots were opened, till Death could flip her switch and send out the numbers and the world would thankfully, thankfully collapse into their eternal rests.

And then, Germany could sleep and Prussia could die.

Physically, of course. Mentally, Germany had discovered, his brother was long gone. For it had been two years without death. Specifically, six hundred seventy eight days, a measure spread in broken toothpicks across his counters as Prussia kept careful count. On the six hundred fifty nine, Prussia had leaned into Germany and, in anise scented breath, hissed "When we're out, I'll use my hair. Teeth, then, maybe my fingers. If I'm gonna be a walking corpse, I'd better look the part, yeah?"

Germany had nodded in agreement.

Three toothpicks later, Prussia said "I miss Austria. When's he comin', I need to get after him 'bout those planned flower arrangements. Hungary showed me 'em- uglier than shit, I tell you. Yeah, shove your amaryllis where I did my prick, I know what that shit means. You know?"

"Know what?"

"Amaryllis, that purple shit flower, you get the meaning of it and all."

"What amaryllis means?"

"Yeah."

"No."

"_Pride._" Prussia drew out the word. "Priiiiide. Hilarious, right. Because look at me." He gestured to his frame, to his jutting ribs and pallid skin, his dulled eyes and heavy bags, his thinned lips and chapped hands. "I'm a dead man, West. I don't care if the heart's still groanin' and my legs got movement, but oh man, I'm so fucking dead. Where's the dignity in that? My date's long passed here, West, and I'm just gonna rot and wilt like that goddamn amaryllis. Fuck it, West. Fuck everything." A pause. "Shit, I need to get fucked."

"You recognize my concerns?"

"Completely."

Austria pursed his lips and said little more. He needn't have to, his stormy countenance and rigid posture was a volume- annotated, underlined, and thrice huffed- entitled "What This Means for Anschluss".

"No sovereignty, Germany. That little mockery of a government you implemented to appease us is little more than a treat at the end of a trap. Don't believe we aren't recognizing it."

"Your people are still dying, if only momentarily."

"Yes, but what of that?" Austria huffed, crossing his left leg over his right with a show-like kick. "They awaken in their graves, Germany, contracted to an hour of pure horror before collapsing back into death. I hope you know that a great many collapsed on the spot when a crash victim, no more than twenty days dead, shot up at his own wake and rendered his mother comatose. And you believe this is some sort of improvement over your ordeal."

"I do not, Austria."

"No, you certainly don't." Right over left, kick. "How is your brother?"

"Alive."

"That means nothing."

"Unwell. Mostly just drinks, now."

Left over right, kick.

"That's all he did before."

"Not like this. I worry."

Right over left, kick.

"You think he's going."

"Perhaps."

Austria sighed, turning his head towards the window. "I suppose I should visit him."

"'Bout time you visited me!" Prussia crowed when he saw Austria, dampened by the downpour and shivering in his (highly impractical for such conditions, tsk!) immaculately pressed garments. Nodding in both greeting and order for silence, Austria shuffled across the scuffed threshold and entered a world of stacked glass and half-empty bottles, some crashed to the ground and the others lazily rolling about the floor. Through sunny days they provided a new paint scheme, dappled cross the walls and radiant along the windowsill. Through nights, they were a rigged battlefield, a cracked up foot rather than shattered bone in consequence but all the same. Germany hadn't complained, of course, because only the truest and barest of asses would complain to the gratefully alive.

"You seem well."

"Never been more alive, my dearie, and never more aware of it 'cause every day I'm up, I'm going and I'm shaking and I'm thinking- hey, by now, I should be maggot buffet, I should be a soil accessory and there should be fucking _daisies_ sprouting outta my crotch. So I get my sweet, sweet brew and I know, I _know_, Austria, that the only difference between here and there is that I get the freedom to choose what I host. So I think, let's not host well-wishes and generation after generation of writhing larvae. Let's host a cabaret, let's host a friendly get-together ultimately ending in cum cross my counter and numbers in my pocket. Let's fucking live it down tonight, Austria. And you know what else I like?"

"Do I wish to?"

"You're brilliant, y'know, you've got a right up there sense' a humour. Your girlfriend don't, she don't get this. But, Austria, hear. I like big women. I like big men. I like big and big because y'know what, everything about being human and mortal is _tiny_. I got to be there for a bit, being the tiniest of the tiny, their lives just the ring of a gong compared to our-our- our fucking _epic operas_, our Wagnersand our _Rheingeld, _on and on forever and the end can't be seen with glasses. So these people, these big ones, are like that 'cause the little is what makes the big. I'm big. I'm very, very big, but guess what. Guess that I got a waistline like a splinter and even then, guess that I'm made up of teeny little blood pieces and small little flecks of skin that come off under nails. So I need the big, the _physical_ big, to get me, the _spiritually _big, you get it. And you aren't getting a sense of big until you got a cock like a fucking Knackwurst up your tiny little ass. Felt like I was dyin', Austria. And guess what. Guess."

Austria wished he never came.

"I am, Austria! I am dying, dying, dying. Ha. Wine?"

"No, thank you."

"More for me, then." Prussia swirled some of the liquid in his glass and smirked at the wall. "I was thinkin' of painting something, too. Italy's a good painter."

"He is."

"Romano was good, too. All surreal shit, I like it. All his shits at Spain's, of course, but I didn't got there much. I should, before I go, 'cause Spain came here and it's only polite to return favours. I wonder what he would've done with this, this…waiting room, yeah? Waiting to get your name called always sucks because it's never the first one, always, like, the twentieth. And you hear more and more and after a while you think if that's you, if that's you, if they're all you, if you're everybody but then you're nobody. You're not even anybody, just nobody. I wonder if Romano felt like that too."

The rain had reached Biblical proportions now, threatening to shatter the glass and fill the tiny little space until there was no room to breathe, move, talk, just wait. Waiting for death.

"Romano didn't get a pardon, if memory serves. According to Spain, he passed in his sleep."

"Yes, that's right, in his sleep. I don't sleep anymore. Well, sometimes it just hits me and I'm down, but I don't consciously sleep anymore. Leaves too much room for dreamin', I figure. Excuse me, I need to shit."

Austria was left with silence, a cracked wine bottle and a companion of equal disposition, and he found himself wondering when he could just go back to rest.

Germany placed his hand atop his brother's head, the man placid in a rare sleep. His little mouth, puckered and shrivelled, let out short breaths and gentle murmurs. The burly man from earlier was gathering his belongings, grumbling something about picking up painkillers for his cancer-stricken wife. Germany ignored him to trace the soft shell of Prussia's left ear, the canyon in his shrunken wrist and swollen blue veins. His hip bone, stretching the near translucent skin at full peak, the sharp wings in his back and gnarled feet. A fleshed gargoyle.

Germany couldn't even bring himself to cry.

Once again, they were forgotten.

END


End file.
